It's been a while. My head is stuffed with measured quality nipple-shields, burp-methods, swaddling techniques, seedy yellow and black-tar baby-crap, and endless, high-pitched, end-of-the-world, soul-crushing wails. I'm never entirely sure if I should change his diaper or call a priest. Point is, my son is here - with a vengeance. And he's here to stay. I'm simply checking in - defibrillating the ol' blog before she dies a slow and pathetic death. What an insane couple of months, amiright? First it's the guy gouging my eyeball out, then it's the guy who tried to stab me in the other eye (AND in the stomach), and then it's my neck surgery, then the book, then the baby...

You know what the shittiest thing is? Besides Ethan's diapers? I can take his screaming - I really can (to my surprise), no big deal - I can take the shit-smears and the two-hour feeding intervals. Hell, I can take guys chasing me around with edged weapons. I can even handle eye-gougers (with collarbone-breaking efficiency, apparently). But what I can't seem to handle is this goddamn inactivity. It's been eight months since my neck injury, and I'm still restricted from doing most things physical. Fact is, I've put on about thirty pounds in the interim. Thirty! You see, it's almost easier with nutjobs - at least I can do something. At least I have options: I can either charm them to death, kill them with kindness and all that - or hurt them before they hurt me. I know how to do it fast, and I know how to do it violently. Despite its stigma, LP ain't the Police. Oh, we run around like idiots - trying our best to act like cops - but we are not the police. When we deal with criminals, we have a pair of cuffs, a phone, and our wits. No radios, no guns, no tasers, no partners. No network of guys on standby, ready to help me if I get smeared across the pavement. Why keep doing this job? The company I work for is run by saints (as far as our fractional reserved, debt-based, capitalistic consumption-economy is concerned), my bosses are very, very supportive - like family - and they pay exceptionally well. But the truth is that I don't have a particularly deep skill-set, other than sitting in a dark room by myself - transferring thoughts onto paper - and hurting people with my hands. This is a digression. I'm not complaining - please know that I'm not complaining - I love my job. Short of a position with St. Paul, and short of making the jump to trading equity or writing full time, there's nothing else I know how to do. The point.

The point is, I can handle stress. I can juggle insanity like it's nothing. Growing up the way I did, seeing the things I saw, I can handle most things. But what I can't seem to take is this inactivity. This stasis. This thumb-twiddling state of nothing. Damn it. It's too much time alone with my thoughts.

And I've been thinking about my new role as father. I'm still waiting for this sense of awe that people are telling me about. I'm supposed to be overcome with this kind of euphoric man-son abridgment. I haven't felt that yet. But here's what it's like for me.

Have you ever been in very deep, open water? Like the ocean, or a great lake? Because that's what seeing my brand new baby boy was like. It was like seeing the ocean for the first time. And the ocean is a vast thing. An existence apart from us. It's so endless, and beneath its surface is an entire universe of undiscovered, unknown, unobserved, and yes, terrifying possibilities. Seeing my son for the first time was like treading open water, peering through a crystalline lens of shock the immense marine shadows moving slowly and intently beneath my dangling toes. Not seeing the tiny baby he is, but seeing the man that he's going to be, and that he'll be a reflection of me, was the most terrifying thing I've ever experienced. I hope, beyond all hope, that I don't fail that man - that distant mosaic of me. I hope that he likes me. People say, "bah, of course he'll like you." That's not so easy for me. The first fist-fight I ever got in was with my father - the first of many. He either beat what weaknesses I have into me, or tempered me with bone. I'm still not sure which. I'm not intending to be so intimate, but Hemingway said that writers should write what they have to say instead of speak it, so here I am: my deepest fear is that there's some natural law of the cosmos by which all fathers shall resent their sons, and vice-versa. I can't shake that fear - it's all I've known - and I hope it drives me to be the best. I hope it pushes me to be a better man.

The first time I saw the ocean, I lost my mind. It was the biggest thing I'd ever seen. The horizon stole my breath. I flipped out and charged into the squall - ten foot waves - my wife as my witness, fully clothed, I swam as hard and as far as I could, not thinking about the deep unknown stretched out below me. It was pure, thoughtless joy - the kind of joy that can only be felt once you've cast yourself into something massive and endless - an absolute torsion release of rope and tether, and care, and worry. That's how I want to approach this new time in my life. That's the kind of father I want to be.